


The Determined

by Kay (sincere)



Series: Heart of Winter [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: First Time, Jotun!Loki, M/M, Masturbation, Original Frost Giants, Rites of Passage, Sex Toys, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 00:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincere/pseuds/Kay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki managed to survive in Jotunheim long enough to reach maturity -- but his people will always consider him a child, unworthy of respect and certainly not a throne, as long as he remains untouched. The trick is to find a willing frost giant... and to make sure his body is ready. But Loki isn't about to let such silly hurdles get in the way of his ambitions. (Prequel to Winter's Service.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure I'd do it, but I did it. A prequel to Winter's Service: the story Loki alluded to in Winter's Service of his mating with Angrboda. Story is entirely Jotunheim-centric. There are more planned installments in this canon, as well as a second chapter to this piece.
> 
> This was indirectly inspired by a norsekink prompt: In Jotunheim, you aren't really considered an adult until you have sex, but the Jotun think Loki is too small and are afraid of hurting him, and he's annoyed to find himself treated like glass. He sets out to seduce a frost giant by any means necessary.

Loki waited until it was perfectly dark, until the world was silent except for the wind whipping outside their simple two-story dwelling, until there was no movement or sound inside the little upstairs room where they slept.

That was when Loki murmured, "They are saying that Byleistr has become an adult."

Silence reigned again for a long, endless minute when he fell quiet. Enough time that anyone else would have assumed the other party was already deep in sleep. But then Angrboda said, similarly undertone, "Eavesdropping again. That is a bad habit, mouse."

"Everyone is talking about it. I would have had to pack my ears with snow to avoid eavesdropping." Loki drew the furred blanket high about his neck, hunching his shoulders. The fur did not protect him from the cold, which he did not mind, not the way he minded the wind: even in a well-maintained building like this, the howling wind always found a way to slip in through the cracks, to whisper over his skin and tease his sensory ridges with afterimages of the outside world. Better to cover himself when he slept, so he was not awoken with the echoes of empty streets outside. "Why should he have become an adult before me?"

...And perhaps the blanket was a source of comfort, as well.

"It is not so surprising for a runt to mature late," Angrboda said, patiently. "You know this. We talked about it with the direwolf litter years back."

He could not deny the logic of that, but the thought chafed at him. He was older than Byleistr -- older by enough that he could remember when Laufey swelled with him, and yet Byleistr was now old enough to join the ranks of the court, and Loki was still that same scavenging child.

"I am more than forty years old," Loki said, hushed. "Most Jotun come of age after thirty. When will I _mature_?"

"You will know," was his only answer to that.

"How?" he pressed, not saying, _Is it by desire alone? I desire, Angrboda. I am only a child in name._

Another beat, and then came the sounds of Angrboda shifting. "Those around you will scent that you are ready, and they will begin to pursue your approval. It is an honor to be the one who introduces a youngling to pleasure."

"Unless," Loki mused, "they are afraid of hurting me, because I am so very undersized. Don't you think?"

Angrboda said nothing for a long moment, and this time Loki was seized with the thought that it was too long. He sat up abruptly, looking blindly across the pitch black of the room to where he knew Angrboda's far larger shape curled against his own pallet.

"Am I mature _now_?" he asked suspiciously.

There were many things that people could -- and did -- say to deride Angrboda. He was critical and sometimes unreasonable, and judgmental, often forming negative opinions on others by first impression alone. He was ambitious and creative: he had taught Loki to dream big and to seize any means necessary to accomplish that dream. But he was himself lazy, his skill as a a jewelry-maker rivaled only by the lack of effort he put into that craft unless he had a commission already in waiting. And yet he was also spoiled -- given to luxuries, spending what he did make on fine throws, imported drinks, and savory meats, so that somehow he was never quite able to build up any wealth.

But the one thing that Loki treasured about him, the one thing that he would not have traded if it meant erasing all those other flaws, was his frankness. When Angrboda spoke, it was always direct and to the point. He would tell you exactly what he thought of you, exactly how he wanted to use you -- if he answered the question directly at all.

Honesty was a rarity to be prized.

So Loki already knew, from how long it took Angrboda to answer, that his response would be, "Yes."

The irritation swept away any chance of sleep. "And you said nothing?" he hissed. "You let me go on believing I must wait for some mythical readiness?! Tell me, you who aspires to live a pampered lifestyle when I am king, will I ever be taken seriously as candidate for Laufey's throne without first becoming an adult?"

Angrboda scoffed, barking out a short laugh. "Not likely!"

"Then _why_ in all the realms would you keep this from me? Why would you not _buy_ me a lover the moment I was old enough?"

He heard Angrboda sigh. "You are no use to me if something goes awry. If you are damaged, or if word gets out that you could not complete the union, you could be considered a child forever." He added, pragmatically, "I was hoping you would get bigger."

For a moment, disbelief and irritation warred in him, and then Loki dropped onto his back again, staring up blankly at the ceiling. "I am forty-one years old," he said, finally. "I have not gotten any _bigger_ in years."

"Then it is even better for you to wait, as I said," came the answer.

"What am I waiting for, besides awakening to find myself doubled in size and now a proper giant?"

"Until you have your first fertile time," Angrboda said. "Your body will be more able to adjust. Trust me, if you can produce an infant, you can take a cock."

Loki felt his lips curl back from his teeth. "It will be another decade from now, _if_ being a runt does not postpone it still further!"

Angrboda shrugged; Loki could hear his fur throw shifting, and his complete disinterest. "Do not forget. The alternative may be an end to both our goals."

He did not forget. But he did spend the next hour staring up at the ceiling, thinking a great deal, with only the roaring of the wind outside for company.

In the morning, Loki sifted through their store of jerky and vegetables, and told himself that he could replenish the stock of meat when he went out in the early hours of the day. A single good kill and they could be set for another week, and eat well tonight, which would please Angrboda. Then Loki could spend the rest of the day attending to... his own affairs.

He heard the padding of footsteps from above, and then Angrboda came into view. He was slim for a frost giant, tall but narrow, shaven-headed as most every adult warrior was. His face was pointed, resembling that of a fox Loki had once caught in a trap, admired the soft white fur of with a lingering stroke, and then released so that the trap might catch more substantial prey.

The sensory ridges lining Angrboda's skin wove in an intricate pattern that Loki had rarely seen on his people. They swirled and curved almost dreamily over his chest and at his temples above his eyes, like curled horns. Loki had always thought about touching and tracing them, so different than his own more practical markings, but physical contact was not something frost giants indulged in casually.

"We need meat," Angrboda said.

"I noticed," Loki said. He tossed his hair over his shoulder, adding blithely, "I'll hunt this morning."

"Good." The older man strode past Loki, bending entirely around his smaller shape to grab a carrot from their store of vegetables. He murmured, reluctantly, "I must find a source for tourmaline."

"What exhausting work," Loki said dryly. "That will probably take you all the day, to ask where the dwarves find their tourmaline." He ducked under a half-hearted swat.

"Try to have food when I return," was their last exchange before Angrboda slipped out the door.

That was another thing that Loki appreciated about Angrboda. The words that were spoken to him in the perfect dark of the night simply seemed to disappear the next morning. They both pretended nothing had been said at all, and went their separate ways.

It was more than an hour's hike to where Loki had taken to hunting; well out of the way of the proper hunters, who took very unkindly to runts scuttling about underfoot and stealing their plentiful targets, as he had learned the hard way. This area of the tundra was not as rich as the southern sheltered hills where plants were scavenged, or as inhabited as the hollow caves and shimmering waters in the east. But it was safe, unlike the outer reaches, and there _were_ rare, hardy animals that traveled into this region of deep snow, seeking less contested food: big, dangerous animals like muskoxen and direwolves.

One lucky kill could mean days of meat. More than one kill would have them in luxury.

Loki liked to make his own luck. He held perfectly still, turning up his head, and let the wind guide him.

The breeze whispered over the markings on his arms and face, tickling his ribs; he felt its path, what had shaped and stirred it. It mapped out his surroundings in every direction, painting a picture like sonar. There was a storm brewing to his right, far away, but near enough to give an edge to the wind; there was a small copse of shrubbery behind him that he thought with interest might have berries. And to the front left... a lone direwolf, its silhouette impressed upon his senses.

He rigged up the trap, a magical binding to paralyze any creature that stepped within it, then set up an elaborate gauntlet to chase one into its range. Then he went to tempt his direwolf with a rabbit lure.

By the time he made it back to the shadow of the old palace, it was early afternoon, and he was pleased with himself. If he caught the attention of a few of the Jotun, the tiny should-be prince trekking through the empty streets, lugging a direwolf larger than his whole body slung over his shoulders, at least none of them attempted to take it from him.

In his earliest years, he had scrounged for scraps from others to feed himself, and then he had grown enough to hunt his own kills: then he had needed to grow enough to defend his right to those kills from frost giants who felt themselves more deserving because they had been fortunate enough to be born a decent size.

"Is wearing an entire direwolf your latest trick to disguise your height?"

His vision was slightly obstructed by the direwolf's bulk, but his sensory ridges at least had warned him that someone approached. Still, he had no way of telling one large frost giant silhouette from another just by the impression they left in the wind, so it wasn't until he heard the voice that he let his lips curve up.

"Do you think it will come into fashion?" Loki asked, maneuvering about to get a better look at one of the very few Jotun who would speak to him socially.

Hrothgar was close to Loki in age, though of course, no one would have thought it to look at him. Though they had never been alike in stature -- Hrothgar was tall, taller even than Angrboda, and he was powerfully-built -- once they had played the same games together, two disgraced brats tumbling in the snow, long black hair adrift about their shoulders. Now Hrothgar's head was shaven like a warrior's, his sapphire features broad and calm, and the corner of his lips was tilted ever so slightly higher.

He had an axe strapped at his hip that could have taken Loki clean in half with hardly any effort. He had started as a worker of the land, and then so impressed those around him that he had been taken as a hunter, and now so impressed those around him that there was word he would soon be a true warrior, trained to replace the many who had fallen since the war on Midgard. Not bad for the sole survivor of a bloodline that had once been great, before Hrothgar's father shamed them by his cowardice against the Asgardians.

"I think you will have little influence over fashion when your back gives out and you can do nothing more than tunnel through the snow," Hrothgar said. "I will carry it for you."

A generous offer, a kind offer, and a _needed_ offer. Loki had carried the direwolf for over an hour's extremely slow march back from his hunting spot; its great weight had bent him down so low that he ached all over and he wanted little more than to lie down, perfectly straight, and bask in being flat. So, naturally, he said, "No touching my kill. This is all for me, and I'll not have you running off with it."

Hrothgar's lip twitched up further. "That direwolf is too small to steal. That is a runt beast, for a runt hunter. I would be embarrassed to present it as my own."

"Laugh all you like, but this is a magic direwolf," Loki told him, tone turning sweet. "And before I killed it, it told me the secret of how to take down the big conceited beasts who think themselves Jotunheim's greatest hunters."

That got a laugh from Hrothgar, and Loki was pleased; he was a quiet sort, reserved, though it was the quiet reserve of a massive boulder that would not be budged. He was not prone to easy laughter, and nor was he prone to listening to those who had told him to play with worthy children, and stay away from the king's runt.

"But I may consider setting down my burden for a time, to talk with you," Loki said, lifting an eyebrow questioningly.

Hrothgar tilted his head, indicating a low wall where they could sit; Loki dropped his direwolf into the snow and very gratefully sank onto the old, half-broken stone, while Hrothgar hunched nearby.

They enjoyed a quiet silence for a beat, and Loki tilted his head back, looking up at the gray sky.

Then he said, "It has come to my attention that my size may be discouraging potential suitors. I have decided it is high time that I make myself more appealing as a mate."

Hrothgar seemed uncomfortable, shifted in his crouch. "Is this about Byleistr?" he wanted to know.

That question annoyed him, and Loki drew up to his full height. Of course it was about Byleistr, but at the same time, the question assumed that he could have no other reason to want to be mated. Loki hissed, "No, this is about _me_! I am not a _child_ , Hrothgar." His fingers curled in front of his stomach, and then he added, bitterly, "I _want_ , too."

Hrothgar looked away for a long moment. It was no doubt strange for him -- for everyone -- to see him and think of him as a frost giant full-grown, who might feel the same physical urge to mate as any other his age.

"Why tell me?" Hrothgar asked finally.

Loki let out a breath, forcing himself to let go of the irritation. "Angrboda wants me to wait until I am fertile, so that my body changes. I do not want to wait another decade. I want whatever thoughts you can give me, now," he said. "On your first time, on whatever might help."

For a moment Hrothgar almost visibly considered whether or not to let this request discomfit him, and then he shrugged one shoulder eloquently. "Choose a small partner," he said, soberly. "As small as you can find. You will stretch, but it will be uncomfortable at first." His red gaze flickered down the length of Loki's body, just for a moment, but he managed to refrain from saying, _Hopefully only at first._ "There is a yellow plant that you will find toward the valley, where the snow begins to thin. Oil from that plant will slick and ease the way, so you do not chafe. Use it _liberally_. But it will be for nothing if you do not relax, for your body will not accept your partner. After the first time, they say it is easier."

He listened raptly, taking in the advice. "They say?" he asked, curiously.

Hrothgar shrugged again. He had never spoken of his first mating, when he became an adult; he did not speak of it now. But the information he did offer was invaluable. Loki had only once spoken to Angrboda about these basic facts of life, but he had observed frost giants in careless matings where they could be seen -- privacy and shame were not of great concern in Jotunheim, where even basic survival was a daily question -- and lately he had lingered to watch them, with some wistful curiosity, and some heat.

"I can practice," Loki said, thoughtfully. "That way, my first time will not be my first time."

Hrothgar rubbed his arm, fingers trailing over the symmetrically patterned flesh. "A partner once told me that he had used ice-shaping to craft an icicle in the shape of a cock... to practice with."

Loki thought about it, and then nodded. An icicle could be adjusted as needed, and for a frost giant, would not be too cold to bear or melt under his touch. His fingers curled a little over the frozen stone, now thinking ahead, to the evening. He knew the yellow flowers: he used their oil for cooking, and he had some already available. He could start right away.

And he _wanted_ to. How self-conscious had he been all this time, feeling defective and undesirable, as the years went by and he remained untouched? How many thousands of times had he felt his comfortable dreams _burn_ away with hunger, and satisfied it with his own quick touch? Soon...

"Do you have a partner already?" Hrothgar asked.

"Waiting under my furs for me to return home and join him?" Loki snorted, shook his head. "As I said, my size has kept everyone from thinking of me as a potential mate. I will select one for myself and _convince_ him of my suitability." It was not tradition, but tradition would have had him dead of exposure forty-one years ago. Since when was he beholden to tradition?

Hrothgar was silent, and it felt somewhat awkward. Loki darted a glance at him, and saw him looking away.

_Then_ he was amused. "That is not meant as an accusation."

"Angrboda would slit me open from gut to throat if anything went wrong," the other frost giant said, mutedly. "Never mind what Laufey King--"

"Laufey does not even care to know I am alive," Loki interrupted him. His eyes narrowed. "Worry not about _him_."

Hrothgar shook his head, and Loki could not say he didn't understand. As little as he might mean to Laufey in practice, Loki was still of the king's blood, and born of his body. Loki was a living, breathing gamble: those who supported him could earn Laufey's resentment, and so could those who harmed him. Angrboda had taken the ultimate risk by taking Loki in and caring for him when Laufey had left him to die, and Laufey had seemingly ignored it. So precedent alone was nothing to fear, and yet...

The only truly safe interaction with Loki was to have none at all. If Laufey took a disliking to Hrothgar, and Hrothgar had drawn blood from Loki, he could claim a father's insult and put a price on his head. But too much help, too much favoritism, could have the same result, for siding with the child that Laufey had sought to kill.

All politics. As much as the threat of Angrboda's very real investment in Loki's continued good health might ward off suitors, the true fear would always be the countless ways that Laufey might _use_ the knowledge of their pursuit.

Which was what made him a good king, Loki reluctantly admitted.

"Would you?" Loki pressed.

Hrothgar rubbed his arm again, and said, "I would not have you _suffer_. It would be a terrible fate, to be considered a child forever."

His lips curved up. "What a good friend I have in you, Hrothgar," Loki mocked, getting to his feet again.

He left the direwolf carelessly in the kitchen on the rough stone table where he and Angrboda sometimes ate. He had spent the trip home thinking about the possibilities -- about mates. Hengist the butcher was young and good-looking enough, and he had a spark of mischief and sly wit about him that was not unappealing, but Loki could not have guaranteed that he would not laugh off any attempted seduction, and so he was out of the question. Widsith the sorcerer was a firm supporter of Loki's and an intellectual giant as well as a literal giant, one of very few Jotun who still knew the ancient arts of magic, and he had passed them on to Loki over years. But he was _old_ , old enough that mineral deposits growing on his skin made him look craggy like a mountain face, and he would not be suitable. As much as Hrothgar was an excellent match, he had made his reluctance clear without Loki even asking him, and Loki enjoyed his company enough to respect that.

So the only thing left to do would be to make himself ready for the partner he _would_ have. He found the oil and then headed upstairs with a rag, quickly stripping out of his furs until he was nude. Angrboda had said he planned to actually work today, and so he knew he would have time.

Loki lowered himself to his knees, splaying his legs over the stone floor; already his blood was rushing quicker in anticipation, his cock starting to harden. His body wanted it -- knew it would feel good. The only thing left was to prove that anticipation right.

He stroked himself for a moment, leisurely guiding fingers over his length, letting his arousal flush until it jutted out in front of him, violet and eager. Then Loki ran his tongue over his lips and reached to uncap the oil, spilling it onto his fingers generously, so that it ran over his skin and splashed to the floor. He ignored it. That was what the rags were for.

Slowly Loki reached behind himself, bringing slick fingers to the tight ring of muscle. He took his time, warming himself up to the idea of pushing in: just stroking, spreading the oil at length, shivering a little. Even just the rub of his fingertips felt good, stimulating the sensitive nerves there.

In the back of his mind he imagined what it would be like for someone else's fingers to touch him -- to make him ready, to seek his pleasure -- and that thought sent an eager heat through him, warming his cool body. Loki took a breath and relaxed, pressing a finger into himself, shifting to spread the oil around his entrance, stretching it out carefully. It felt strange, but his body was quick to adjust, and when he added a second and scissored them apart, already it felt only _good_.

He added a third, lingering this time, lips parted with his focus. With more care, he moved his fingers in, slowly smoothing them deep and then out again, lingering when they were all buried as far as he could get to allow his body to adjust to the thickness.

It was time for more advanced measures.

Loki withdrew his fingers, and reached for more oil before he formed the length of ice in his hands. It was cool and firm to his touch, and did not melt or burn. Even with his fingers slick, it was not slippery in his easy grip. He adjusted its shape purposefully: wider than his three fingers, though not by much, and well-rounded at the tip. He was impatient, but cautious, coating it with the oil. Even with his blood racing, he was all too aware of Angrboda's warning. If he rushed this and damaged himself, not only could he end up hurt, but he could end up considered a child forever... a far worse fate.

No. He would go slowly.

When the cold tip of the icicle pressed against the tight ring of muscle, he caught his breath. Somehow it felt very different from his own fingers, a difference that sent a little spark of excitement through him.

He bent forward, pushing the icicle up, slowly working it into his body. He had tapered it, so that the penetrating end was not much bigger than two of his fingers, but it grew wider, meant to stretch him out as it sank in, inch by inch. Still, it felt -- awkward. With the length of the icicle, he could not control it well. If he wanted to do this properly, he would have to find a better way to control the movement.

Loki huffed out a breath, glancing around himself, and finally shifted onto his knees again, gathering his concentration around him. He shaped the ice, touching it to the floor and fixing it in place, and then he shifted his body, tentative. Satisfied with the stability of the icicle, Loki rose up on his knees, slow, and then lowered himself deliberately onto the tip.

His eyes lidded. Yes, this would do -- just fine.

But caution was like torture, torture he administered to himself. With his blood pulsing through his body, throbbing into his cock, Loki forced himself to stay steady and ease his body lower and lower onto the icicle. He paused the instant he felt discomfort, drawing up and working it in and out with little movements, shifting until the moment passed and he could proceed.

It felt like an eternity before he was almost seated on the floor, and realized that he had done it -- he had taken all of it. A hiss of triumph escaped his throat, and he let his fingers slip behind him again, finding and tracing his rim curiously. The ring of muscle was stretched wide around the slick icicle buried inside him, and the touch made him shiver hungrily, pleasure spearing all through him.

Loki started to move again, bracing his thighs and lifting his body, then sinking down. His eyes slipped shut, lips parting. _This_ was what he had been missing all this time. He knew that the slim rod of ice was not as large as it would have had to be to mimic the size of a Jotun's cock, but right now he felt stretched and good and full -- and he couldn't believe he hadn't done this years ago.

He let himself be immersed in the sensation, the way his body could feel: allowing his body to dictate his movements, his rhythm, listening to its signals without distracting himself with _thought_. He imagined himself straddling his partner, grinding down onto him, riding him, proving in every way how very _not_ a child he had been to begin with. He did not let his fingers seek out his cock, not yet. For now he just wanted to feel the shape that split him open, fitting so neatly inside his body. He wanted to revel in it, pure and unfettered.

Lost in sensation the way he was, he did not hear Angrboda's return. Eyes closed, he did not see him appear in the doorway and then go still. But eventually he did open his eyes again, and he saw the other man there, staring at him fixedly as he worked his body wantonly over the length of the icicle. A thrill of heat went through Loki's body, already alive with the heat of his arousal, as his rhythm faltered.

"I thought you would be out a while longer," Loki said, his voice husky and thick.

Angrboda turned without a word and went back down the stairs.

Loki's lips curled up, and now he finally reached for his cock. That was... perfect progress for his first time practicing, he thought.


	2. Chapter 2

The only frustrating thing was that, occasionally, Loki wished that he could tell someone about his little triumphs and bigger plans and even grander dreams. He could name on the fingers of one hand all the people he trusted even just to have a civil conversation with him: though he was frequently the subject of curious stares and whispered exchanges, any effort on his part to indicate that he was aware of this interest was met with scorn at best, and violence at worse.

Loki had learned long ago that Hengist was not to be trusted with plans that had not yet been completed. He was too quick to laugh and mock and to find fault -- traits that Loki enjoyed in him, but more when it came to other people than himself. Hengist was only to be told when the plans were already successful, and so there was nothing to tear down; all he could do was admire Loki's ingenuity and provide his commentary harmlessly. It was a shame, though. He imagined Hengist would enjoy the tale.

Loki had already told Hrothgar enough about his plans, and the other frost giant's response had been discomfort and excuses. Mockery aside, he was a fair friend, and as such it made him uncomfortable to be in a situation where he both wanted to help, and could not help. Loki would have mercy on him and involve him no further.

Angrboda would have been the logical choice -- the only person in this place that Loki could trust with his life, and certainly the only one that he would trust with his future aspirations -- but he was _hilariously_ stubbornly pretending that what he had witnessed had not happened. When Loki descended from the upstairs to find Angrboda preparing the direwolf for the night's dinner and for storage, the taller frost giant was studiously not looking at him, and very casually asked questions about where he had gotten his kill. Since he went to such efforts to pretend that he had forgotten Loki's intentions to become an adult, Loki had thus far obliged him by not bringing it up again.

So he went to Widsith.

"You are training yourself so that you might be able to be mounted," Widsith mused, and then chuckled, the sound like rocks grinding together. "Clever. You have always been clever."

"If I were clever I would have done it years ago," Loki said sourly. He had not yet forgiven Angrboda -- any of them, but mostly Angrboda -- for not telling him earlier. He cast a wary glance at the sorcerer. "Did _you_ know?"

Widsith snorted. "You think highly of me. I am _old_ , fool. I am not of breeding age any longer. I cannot smell such subtle things as your weak flesh. I can barely smell smoke from burned meat."

Loki felt his lips quirk up in response, but he only said, "All the more reason why you should pass on your secrets to me. You are clearly fading fast."

The ancient Jotun shifted, his threadbare cloak rustling about his long body, sending dust up into the air. Loki watched with idle curiosity. Who knew how many years Widsith had worn that cloak? Since the war? Since ages before that? Since the dawn of time? He suspected that unless Loki was here, the old mystic did not bother to move at all, only sitting cross-legged in this cave, gathering dust. Standing, Loki was the same height as him seated.

"All the more reason _you_ should cook for me." Widsith reached for the direwolf meat, roasting on its spit. Loki batted his hand away. Widsith's sigh was loud and irritable and made Loki suspect that once, he must have been quite the handful. "I will probably outlast you, wretch. I will probably outlast this accursed realm, given how warm it's become." He sulked, looking away.

He was not a handful now, so much as a chore: he was considered a communal responsibility. Several hunters took turns fending for him. Once, before Loki could remember, the frost giants had been different -- a culture where everyone in a settlement or city was bound together like a tribe, a culture where younglings were raised and the elderly were provided for by their entire community and all responsibilities were shared.

But then they had lost the Casket of Ancient Winters, and Jotunheim had begun to warm. Now the edges of the land broke apart, and their cities were melting, and their people slowly scattering. A harder land, a harder people.

Loki was too young to remember before, but he took their word for it that things were not always this way. He was happy enough to have the Asgardians to blame for it.

Still, Widsith's age was respected by the frost giants, and he was a sorcerer, when there were almost no others left after the war. He was so old that his skin had faded from blue to almost white, only tinged blue at the edges and in bends of his body. There were stony crags at his cheekbones, his chin, his shoulders, his feet, and on his head, which was no longer shaven but naturally bare. He looked like the child of a mountain, almost as old.

Loki didn't care about Widsith's age. He cared just as little about his responsibility to care for his elders. What he cared about was that Widsith talked to him like a person, provided advice when Loki confided in him about his plans, and -- on rare occasion -- taught him ancient secrets of magic.

He was not useless, and thus needed to be provided for. He was _useful_ , and that was why Loki provided for him.

"You've told me about the land warming before," he said, keeping the spit turning and shifting foot to foot uncomfortably. "There must be something the king could do about that."

Widsith made a dismissive noise. "Our realm is fragile. We lost many of our warriors when we lost the Casket. Without it, and with Asgard's watchful eye upon us, we are wise to keep quiet for a while. You may not understand, but that is the best course of action for now. Laufey is not wrong to bide his time."

"But you do think he has a plan," Loki pressed.

The sorcerer's eyes lidded, almost closing completely, as if he were suddenly falling asleep; his silence spoke for itself. "I think it is nothing for you to trouble yourself with, _child_."

"Enjoy saying that while you can," Loki said sweetly, turning the spit again.

It wasn't until later, when he was alone with Angrboda at their house, that he said what he truly thought: "It seems obvious enough what we must do, however long-term such a plan must be. We must take from Asgard what is ours." He sniffed. "And perhaps more."

They were still dining well on the direwolf that he had caught a few days before; the preserved meat and a few winter greens made for quite a sizable dinner. Angrboda had finished his part of the meal much quicker, and was currently sitting back at the table, watching Loki, who stood by the counter and cleaned idly while he ate. Angrboda said, "Widsith is a coward, and everyone knows it. He is fading in his old age, and as the last of our sorcerers, he feels he must preserve their legacy by courting no danger, nor moving from that wretched cave."

"He should pass his legacy on to _me_ ," Loki muttered. Most of his knowledge was self-taught: Angrboda had passed on the spells that he knew, but they were not spells of _power_ , only spells of _use_. How to enchant metal, how to find the structural heart of a gem, how to locate a substance or create a heat source. To learn more, he had needed to bury himself deep in ruins far more ancient than the capital where they lived, and to experiment with what he could piece together or imagine on his own. But there was fathomless still-greater sorcery to learn, things that were never captured on paper, but passed on from one mage to the next in word alone. Widsith was the only one left who could possibly give him that.

"He should, but he will not," Angrboda told him, with a curt shake of his head. "He is still holding out hope that there will be another with the talent and the interest. Widsith's own sons are all long dead, but he still cannot have Jotunheim's most powerful magics in the hand of a runt."

 _Or a child,_ Loki thought. He allowed himself to look up at Angrboda and smirk. "Shall we see how quickly he changes his mind after Laufey does?"

Angrboda laughed, the sound low and rich.

Darkness was falling quickly and Loki excused himself to go upstairs, taking advantage of Angrboda starting to clean the table to leave that to him and attend to his 'practice'.

Loki stripped down quickly and let out a breath as he sank slowly to his knees, reaching behind himself to stroke his fingers over his skin, wasting no time. His breath hitched as he found the cold between his legs, and he gripped it between two fingers, beginning to pull it -- out. The icicle slid from the tight embrace of his body, slipping sensuously over the walls of his channel, the gentle curves and bumps of it stroking him. It came out with ease, no resistance, but his body was reluctant to release it, clinging to the thick shape that Loki had kept within himself... for hours.

When it was finally out, Loki looked at it with breathless satisfaction. It had not been easy, and the eroticism, the titillating secret of it, had been almost overwhelming more than once. He had barely been able to _sit_ with its wide length inside him. But he was the master of his body, and he had escaped any awkward situations, and -- most importantly -- there had been no discomfort.

He set the icicle aside, finding the oil that he had secreted away up here and spilling it quickly over his fingers. Then, breath caught again, he rolled onto his back and slipped two fingers into himself, the stretched muscle yielding perfectly to his touch. Two, and then quickly three, spreading the oil briskly, not even trying to stimulate himself. He didn't need to. He was already excited enough, after days of preparation for this.

When Angrboda came upstairs, that was how he found Loki: spread out decadently over Angrboda's pallet, three glistening fingers buried deep inside himself, his cock rigid and his chest moving quick with his panting breaths. This time Loki opened his eyes the moment he sensed the disturbance Angrboda's arrival made in the air, and he didn't stop, rocking those fingers in, and in, and in.

He panted, "You see -- that icicle?"

There was a long heartbeat before Angrboda's red gaze flickered to it, resting by the side of one of Loki's feet, but his attention was quickly back on the display before him.

"I had it inside me -- all day." Loki shifted his hips, rocking them up, demonstrating helpfully where it had been. "While I went to see Widsith... While I was eating dinner with you..."

He could see the words affecting Angrboda, the way his throat worked, and his eyes darkened, stare becoming intense. When the other frost giant spoke, he said only, "Impressive," and he did not sound quite like himself.

"Would you like to see?" Loki purred. He let his fingers slip from himself, imagining what Angrboda was seeing, the way his hole eased closed only slowly, so accustomed to being held open after the day's training. He pushed himself up onto his knees again, reaching for the icicle, and turned it, stroking his hands lingeringly over its length to smear it with the oil still coating them.

He pressed the icicle into him, lips parting as it began to stretch him again, spreading him out. Inch by steady inch, it slipped into him, until it was buried all the way, leaving Loki on his knees, breathing raggedly and naked and full and not nearly done. He met Angrboda's eyes again, and said huskily, "Come here."

Angrboda took a step forward, and then another. "You are truly the most relentless creature," he murmured. It was not a complaint. "If you'd listened to me, it would be easier. A cunt is made for this."

"I listened, and I decided not to wait," Loki said, eyes lidding. "I compensated by -- choosing you to be the one who takes me. I knew you would take good care of me."

After all, Angrboda was the only one he could fully trust. Who else could Loki rely on to put his future and his potential above pleasure and the moment? Who else could he believe would stop the moment he sensed pain or discomfort?

He reached up, confident, to find the catches of Angrboda's loincloth, the straps thick enough to make it utilitarian and the leather heavy enough to hide what was happening beneath. In spite of himself, Loki was surprised as it slipped away, revealing Angrboda's cock. It was bigger -- thicker than he had supposed. More than he had practiced with. And he couldn't help briefly thinking of what Hrothgar had advised, about choosing a small partner.

He didn't allow himself to pause, though: he had chosen, made his choice, and he could not afford to seem hesitant, lest Angrboda take that as a sign of his wavering conviction and use that as an excuse to pull away. Instead, Loki nuzzled the length with his closed lips, his cheek, and immediately felt Angrboda's shivering breath of pleasure.

The sound filled him with satisfaction -- with, perhaps, a sense of power. His eyes lifted to see Angrboda's face as he traced the seam of his lips over the side of the other man's cock. It thrilled him a little to see Angrboda tighten his jaw, swallow with suppressed heat.

He let his mouth open this time, lifting his head to draw the tip of Angrboda's shaft into his mouth. It was thick, opening his mouth wide, and he could scarcely fit in any more of it than that. For the first time he truly _did_ feel like a child in comparison to Angrboda's size; he suckled lightly, tongue curling around the big Jotun's flesh, but even when he brought his hand up to stroke the rest of his cock, Loki's fingers could not wrap fully around it.

Angrboda did not seem especially disappointed, however. Loki's efforts, the rub of tongue into his slit and the steady pumping of his hands, seemed to intoxicate him, and he groaned quietly, features tense with his want. It was quite gratifying, and Loki felt a reminder of his own need pulse through him, throbbing between his legs.

"Stop," Angrboda husked, and for a moment Loki tensed with anger, opening his eyes to glare up the long length of Angrboda's body. But he continued, "I will not -- have an untouched child lavishing pleasure on me. That is the opposite of how it should be." His hand stroked Loki's hair, gently urging him back, as he began to kneel.

The anger slipped away, and Loki allowed himself to let go of some of the fear that Angrboda would take the first excuse to turn and escape from this, leaving him wanting and frustrated on every level. He reached up, hand stroking Angrboda's jaw, his neck, as the big frost giant pressed close to him, arms wrapping around him, and gently guided him onto his back. Loki gasped a little as the icicle shifted inside of him, and Angrboda chuckled against his skin. "Leave it," he murmured. "For now."

The other man was nuzzling his neck, giving him the strangest sensation of falling, his stomach dropping out from under him -- and his broad hands were stroking, slow and rhythmic, over Loki's sides, strumming the ridges that marked his ribs. "You don't have to," Loki told him. The hot pound of blood was dizzying him.

"Oh, I don't?" Angrboda asked, in a thick laugh against his skin. "After you laid this _trap_ for me, I do not _have_ to?"

He bit down, not gently, on the tendon of his throat, and Loki heard a hungry whine escape him, jerking under Angrboda's body, legs falling wider apart as if to welcome him deep. The icicle inside him, which had been comfortable and familiar after a day, now felt as if it burned where it touched him.

"I meant -- you don't have to concern yourself with my pleasure..." Loki panted. He was not doing this because he was desperate to be pampered and pleased by another; he was more than happy to do all the work himself. "If you think to walk away from this -- I will kill you."

"I will finish it." The dark velvet of Angrboda's voice did not help his arousal, seeming to slip over his skin like a caress, and Loki shivered in response. "And I will see to it that it pleases you very much."

Angrboda brushed his lips over Loki's shoulder, his palms stroking smoothly down, playing the sensory markings like an instrument as he passed them. His hands were big, cupping Loki's ass, squeezing and prying the flesh apart, and Loki groaned.

"Take it out," he said thickly.

There was a beat when he thought Angrboda would ignore him and continue his teasing; he took hold of the base of the icicle and pulled it back just an inch, and then rocked it in again. But Angrboda did ease it out of him -- slowly, perhaps torturously, drawing its smooth slick length from his body, millimeter by millimeter.

When it slipped free, Angrboda brought fingers down to touch him, just feeling, rubbing the shrinking ring of muscle, not pressing inside. That was the most maddening torture yet, and Loki dragged him closer, rocking with his hips, growling, " _Stop_ , stop, and mount me already!"

"You are not _prepared_ ," Angrboda said, his voice husky and amused.

"How am I not prepared?!"

Angrboda straightened, finding the oil, and he coated his fingers with it. He pointed out, "You are well-prepared for that icicle, but not for me."

Loki trembled a little, every part of him protesting the idea of more _waiting_ , and he swallowed. Then he forced himself upright. "Now."

"Loki--"

"Go slowly. I will be relaxed for you. If something goes wrong, stop." Loki met his eyes, red finding red, and then said, very firmly, "But I want it -- now."

Angrboda stared at him for a long moment, measuring, but then finally let out a sigh, and murmured, "You will tell me if you are uncomfortable."

"Yes, yes," Loki said dutifully, but he would have said anything.

Then he shifted back, effortlessly pulling Loki up with him and turning them around so that Angrboda was on his back on the bed, and Loki was sprawled on his chest. "It will be easier for you this way," he said, stroking hands down his flanks again. "You will control the pace -- and will be able to stop if you feel pain."

Loki straightened up, sitting astride Angrboda, and for a moment he just looked down at the other man, taking in his large, rangy form, the heat in his gaze, the thick flesh pressed against his skin that was evidence of his desire... And he felt powerful. 

He ran his tongue over his lips, and pushed himself up. "Try to hold still, then," Loki drawled, positioning his body above Angrboda.

It was very different, somehow, from lowering himself onto the icicle: Angrboda was bigger, and warmer, soft and firm at the same time; Loki let his eyes slip shut as he felt the tip of his cock pressing slowly against his entrance, keeping as relaxed as he could. Still, it felt like he was being stretched wider and wider -- split open, almost painful, and it was long, long seconds before he felt some of the strain ease, and he realized, panting and lips parted, that he had taken the head all the way inside.

Angrboda's jaw was tight, eyes shut; he was not moving, studiously, but his fingers bit deep into the back of Loki's thighs. It made Loki chuckle tightly, and he slid down further, careful. There were a few false starts, moments where he moved in the wrong way and had to freeze and lift himself up an inch and try again, but it was easier going now that the thickest part of Angrboda's cock was inside, and the oh-so-close to painful tension did nothing to dim his hunger, creating a delicious knife's edge of pleasure.

When he was flush against the big frost giant's hips, he asked, in a thready voice, "How -- do I feel?"

"Like a vise," Angrboda growled, fingers digging still deeper, enough to bruise, bringing violet under his skin.

"I don't hear you worrying about my health now," Loki hissed, taunting him.

"I cannot -- think _anything_ with you..." The words trailed off like that.

Loki rose up again on his knees, slowly easing his way off Angrboda's cock, shuddering as he felt his channel closing in, accommodating the sudden emptiness. And then he seated himself again, more quickly, and they both moaned.

Between his thighs he felt his own pulse pounding, at breakneck speed, frustrated by the slow going. A smaller partner -- or a partner his own size -- would have been easier.

But he was so _full,_ deep inside and stretched wide, stuffed so utterly that he felt like he could barely move... It was dizzyingly hot.

If only moving weren't such a difficulty. Loki forced himself up again, shoving down, impaling himself so that Angrboda made a strangled noise beneath him.

"Get up," Loki husked. "I am -- comfortable enough now."

"Loki--" Angrboda hissed, his voice tight, and it sounded as if he would object.

Loki said to him, "I thought -- it was wrong to make the untouched child do all the work, Angrboda."

A beat of stillness passed, and then Angrboda groaned again, using his grip on Loki's waist to draw him up, just enough so that he could roll them over, pressing Loki onto his back and then sliding in again until he was buried all the way home. Loki arched, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the bedroll, feeling that shove all the more intently now that he was not controlling it.

"Yes, ahh, again," he commanded, breathless but certain.

The noise Angrboda made this time was no manlike groan, but an animal sound, a growl, feral and hungry. He drew back and thrust deep again, harder, with more confidence. It knocked the wind out of Loki's body, and his sight dimmed with the surge of arousal, almost too much. Angrboda's hands were surely leaving marks, pinning Loki's slight body down as he rammed into him.

"Angrboda--!" he managed, all the warning he could muster, and he almost didn't recognize the voice in his own ears.

Then Angrboda's mouth was on his neck, nuzzling and biting him, and he did not stop in his movements, pounding deep; it took only a scattered heartbeat of this before Loki was coming, crying out as he spilled untouched, transported by the sheer pleasure of being _filled_.

When he was thinking again, Angrboda was rigidly motionless, curved above him, and Loki was panting and trembling and rapidly flushing with a smug satisfaction. It was good, so good, and Angrboda's girth was still stretching his aching body: somehow, lazy, unreliable Angrboda had found intense willpower and turned himself to stone to ride out Loki's pleasure, unwilling to let the convulsing sheath squeezing his cock carry him away... lest he injure his charge.

He had been a good choice. Loki reached up with a numb hand to stroke his shoulder, and Angrboda flinched from the touch.

"I doubt -- you are thinking to drift off when you are still in need of release," Loki teased him.

Angrboda rasped, "It is done." And, the unspoken sentiment was, perhaps now you want no more to do with his pleasure.

Loki was almost offended. He would take adulthood over childhood whatever the price, of course -- but he did not want to be known as such a selfish lover, either.

Because he planned on doing that again.

"But -- you are not," he said implacably. "So _we..._ are not done."

Angrboda drew up on his arms, gazing down at Loki. "We." And he reached down, palming Loki's cock in one big hand, ducking down to nuzzle the markings on his neck again. The sensations mixed heavily in him, a chemical concoction of pleasure, and then Loki was moaning again, feeling a raw jolt in his stomach as his body started to react again, despite its protests. "Then _we_ it will be. The young need so little time to recover," he purred against Loki's skin.

Lazy, unreliable Angrboda brought him to climax again before he finished, rutting into him hard and fast, holding Loki tight in place with a power that was intoxicating to his overwhelmed mind.

He had never felt so alive. Sore and aching, and messy and exhausted -- and utterly alive. Loki trailed fingers over his own stomach, reveling in the blissful languor that made everything feel so very pleasant, even the strangeness of being empty again. And then he said, husky, "We must do that again."

Angrboda chuckled, and did not move from where he lay sprawled on his back. "Already?" he asked. "Ah, the young."

"Later," Loki corrected him, lips curved up. "Outside. In public." And then his eyes lidded. "For all to see."

So that everyone would know that Angrboda's little mouse Loki would not break under the weight of a Jotun warrior; so that no one could doubt that he was an _adult_ , capable of defending himself, standing for himself, and fending for himself.

And one who was determined. Let the Jotun realize that he was a force that soon they would all have to reckon with.

*

Unsurprisingly, Hengist laughed.

"I swear, no one else has your cunning. _Or_ your audacity," he said. "Angrboda has raised a monster, a monster that has plotted against him."

Loki thought that the look Hengist gave him was approving, perhaps even appreciative, as it skimmed over his body before returning to his labor. They were in the lot behind his butchery, Hengist peeling the skin from a massive direwolf, almost twice the size of Loki's last kill. Hengist was compact but powerful, his fingers deft and practiced as he stripped the beast. Loki had a good view of his craft, perched on a table off to one side.

"Your praise gives me life, Hengist," Loki said modestly. "Please, do continue your admiring."

Another ready laugh as the frost giant crouched. "You put on quite a good show. Everyone has been whispering about it. I've heard so many visitors with your names on their lips..."

Loki smirked. "I suppose I must share some of the credit with my faithful caretaker..."

"I would not, were I you." Hengist flickered another gaze at him, openly curious. "You truly put on a show for him to get him to agree?"

"Watch yourself. You sound like a degenerate pervert." Loki lifted his eyebrows, but he did not bother to disguise the satisfied curve of his mouth.

It had all gone just as he wanted. He had made a lasting impression, and word had spread quickly -- Angrboda had most likely done his part to contribute to that -- and now they were talking about him. If some of them were looking at him as a potential mate, he didn't mind _that_. But some of them were looking at him and seeing the underlying reasons for what he had done: the ambition, the calculation, the studied approach, all to make sure that everyone was on the same page he wanted them to be.

Hengist tossed his head, saying indignantly, "I'm not. I think it's _hilarious_." To prove it, he laughed, and said, "I have heard that Helblindi has offered you his congratulations. How amusing is _that?_ "

There was a part of him that chafed to require congratulations for such a simple accomplishment as finding someone willing to mount him, but from what little he knew of Laufey's heir, he doubted that it was meant mockingly, and in his position, he could not afford to take offense at well-meant words. So he only asked, "Think you that he even knew my name before today?"

The older giant grinned, and shook his head. "He will remember it now."

"He will remember it from now on, I think you mean," Loki murmured, and glanced away innocently as if he had said nothing at all when Hengist cast him another curious glance.

It _was_ generous of Helblindi, since Byleistr was now an adult, and would be able to challenge him for his title. He should, rightfully, have been in no mood to hear that his runt older brother could also do the same now; he should have felt as if he was becoming increasingly surrounded by potential enemies, felt himself growing cornered. He _was_ , and so he should have.

"What else have you heard about Helblindi?" Loki asked.

Hengist snorted. He was a hyena in every way; he loved to gossip, and he loved to cackle about what he learned. "That he had best watch his back. Byleistr is chafing at the bit. Barely an adult and already he's plotting to become heir."

 _If that is only as long as he's been plotting, he's wasted quite a lot of time,_ Loki thought smugly. He was not threatened by Byleistr, who had done nothing exceptionally memorable in his first thirty-someodd years of life other than not be born a runt and not get killed, and in Loki's opinion, it was much more impressive accomplishing the latter for having been the former.

His mediocre opinion of Byleistr perhaps worked against him, however, in that he was thoroughly unprepared when Hengist continued, "He has already even gathered supporters, although North Wind knows I don't envy Hrothgar _that_ position."

"What position?" Loki asked unthinkingly, and then stiffened, his own wits catching up to him. "As supporter? Of _Byleistr_?"

"Yes, he's gone to join up with his faction. You have to admit, it's a clever move," Hengist said cheerfully, bringing a cleaver down to hack one of the legs from the carcass in a single clean stroke. "Everyone is squabbling to get into Helblindi's favor, so trying to win power through him you'd have a thousands competitors. But if only a dozen giants support Byleistr, and he manages to become heir, that dozen will be guaranteed a spot in the top tier. There is risk, but the payoff would be great indeed."

Crunch, went the cleaver through splintering bone; went the ice and stone beneath Loki's fingers. "If he wanted to take a great risk on a prince who might never become king, why travel so far to find one?" he hissed.

Yes... He had to admit that it was clever. A very clever betrayal.

Hengist looked up, surprised, and it was a sign either of Loki's skill at hiding his intentions, or of the improbable scale of his ambitions, that he didn't even find it funny for a long moment. "You?" he asked, in a disbelieving tone. "Well, to start, there is a difference between taking a calculated risk and just accepting defeat."

"What more perfect risk? He loses nothing if I fail because every imbecile in Jotunheim thinks as little of me as you and never even considered me an option," Loki snapped, bristling only more. "But who else would support me! If he actually thought anything of me--"

Then came the laughter, starting low and then building. Hengist even set down his cleaver. "This-- This isn't about who he likes best! This is about who will get him power. And you may have cunning, and you may have audacity, but one thing you will never have is _power_ , little fool!"

Perhaps strangely, the laughter cooled his anger. He saw it clearly now. Hrothgar and Hengist were cut from the same cloth on this issue: pitying the poor runt prince, but considering him a fascinating anomaly at best -- and less than a true person at worst.

That was why the satisfaction would be so great -- because no one else believed in him. Because he was the lowest of the low. And when he rose from that nothing, biting and clawing and fighting, proving himself worthy of every scrap of respect, it would prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was the best of all of them.

He didn't need anyone's approval or faith. He only needed what he earned for himself.

Loki drew himself up and said, with dignity, "Thank you for the reminder. But you may find yourself taking back those words someday."

"Oh, you have a plan to prove me wrong?" Hengist snickered. "Now this I must hear."

But Loki said nothing. He would keep his own counsel; he would trust no one. Only Angrboda would stand by him, and even Angrboda was only interested in Loki's well-being for as long as it could benefit him. If Loki could not have become an adult, he would have smothered him in his sleep long ago; if Loki could have become king without first becoming an adult, he would have seen him never mate at all.

Loki looked out for Loki. Loki proved Loki's worth. Loki kept Loki's counsel. Loki found ways to satisfy Loki.

The only one he could rely on was himself.


End file.
